Rejected by My Alpha for the Rogue Omega

The bond broke at 10:14 on a Tuesday morning.

Not literally. Not yet. But I felt the first crack the moment I stepped into the pack dining hall and saw Jocelyn Greene sitting in my chair.

Not just any chair. The Luna's chair. The high-backed seat at Aidan's right hand, carved with the Ironvale crest, positioned so the entire pack could see who sat beside their Alpha. The chair I had occupied for six years.

Jocelyn looked up as I entered. Her eyes went wide—that practiced, doe-eyed surprise she wore like a second skin. "Oh, Luna Macie," she said softly, half-rising. "I didn't realize—"

"Sit," Aidan said.

Not to me. To her.

Jocelyn sank back down, folding her hands in her lap with a delicate uncertainty that made every male wolf in the room lean forward slightly. I stood in the doorway, garment bag still over my shoulder from the fitting, and watched my mate smile at another woman in my seat.

The bond pulsed. Not pain. Worse. Satisfaction. Aidan's satisfaction, transmitted live through the mark on my neck—the warm, flat pleasure of a man performing generosity for an audience.

I pressed two fingers to the mark. It was still warm. Still there.

I walked to the far end of the table and sat in an empty chair between two Delta wolves who immediately found their plates fascinating. No one met my eyes. Clara, the Beta's mate, was three seats down. She glanced at me once, her mouth tightening in something that might have been sympathy or embarrassment, then looked away.

Aidan stood, raising his glass. The hall quieted instantly.

"To Jocelyn," he said, his voice carrying that easy Alpha warmth I used to think was reserved for me. "For her courage in starting over. Ironvale is stronger with wolves like her."

The pack echoed the toast. I lifted my glass. I drank. The wine tasted like ash.

Through the bond, I felt nothing from Aidan but that same smooth satisfaction. No guilt. No awareness that anything was wrong. Just the pleased hum of a man who believed he was doing something admirable.

Jocelyn's cheeks flushed pink. She murmured something I couldn't hear, and Aidan laughed—a real laugh, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

I set down my glass and stood. No one noticed. I walked out of the hall, down the corridor, past the portrait wall where six years of pack photos showed me standing at Aidan's side, smiling.

I made it to the hallway outside our private quarters before he caught up.

"Macie."

I stopped. Turned. Kept my voice level. "Why was Jocelyn in the Luna's chair?"

Aidan's jaw tightened. Behind him, I could see Clara lingering near the hall entrance, pretending to adjust a wall hanging. Other wolves drifted past, slowing their steps.

"She's new to the pack," Aidan said. "I was making her feel welcome."

"In my chair."

"It's a chair, Macie." His tone shifted—not quite the Alpha tone, but close. The resonance that made wolves stop talking and pay attention. "You're being territorial over furniture."

"I'm being territorial over my position."

"Your position." He stepped closer. The Alpha tone dropped lower, filling the corridor. I felt it press against my wolf—a weight, a command to submit. "Your position is what I say it is. And right now, you're acting like a weak Luna whose wolf isn't worth the mark on her neck."

The words landed like a physical blow. I heard Clara's sharp inhale from down the hall.

Aidan wasn't finished. "Jocelyn shows more spirit as an omega than you've shown in years. She's grateful. She contributes. She doesn't sulk in corners and make scenes over seating arrangements." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that somehow carried farther. "You should be grateful I tolerate this."

The bond pulsed again. Irritation. Not regret. Not guilt. Just irritation that I was inconveniencing him.

I looked at him—really looked at him—and saw a stranger wearing my mate's face.

"Understood," I said quietly.

I walked past him into our quarters and closed the door. I did not slam it. I did not cry. I stood in the center of the room we had shared for six years and pressed both hands to the mark on my neck.

It was still warm.

Still there.

Still mine.

I walked to the wardrobe, knelt, and pried up the loose floorboard. My leather journal sat in the hollow beneath—every alliance I had brokered, every treaty I had negotiated, every healer payment I had quietly arranged. Aidan's entire political rise, documented in my handwriting.

I pulled it out and opened to a blank page. My hand shook as I wrote the date, then a single line: *Southeastern pack renewal finalized. Treaty terms attached. Aidan will announce it next week as his own work.*

I closed the journal. Tucked it back under the floorboard. Stood.

Barnaby was waiting by the bed, his dark eyes steady on mine. I sat beside him and buried my fingers in his rough coat. He leaned into my hand, a solid warmth that asked nothing and judged nothing.

"Good boy," I whispered.

The mark on my neck pulsed once more—a distant echo of Aidan's presence somewhere in the pack house, already moving on to his next task.

I closed my eyes and let Barnaby's breathing fill the silence.